Once she sat down, the smell of brewing bones from the kitchen tugged at her. A taste from her childhood, although her mother rarely made such a variety: sulongtang, komtang, korikomtang, doganitang. From tail bones to knee bones and cartilage to tripe, the choice depends on taste. A true connoisseur would swear by the subtlety of each, but for Suzy they all taste somewhat similar. Just a tinge of Korean flavors inevitably brings her back to Memory Lane. A pinch of garlic, scallion, ginger would sure enough do the trick, although her house had never been filled with such culinary extravaganza. The family usually made do with white rice and a couple of side dishes, maybe a stew or two, either of tofu or miso. Always kimchi on one side of the table, and on the other, fried anchovies and salted pollack eggs. They were almost always store-bought. Mom barely had time for sleep, never mind brewing oxtail bones or marinating kimchi.
After Suzy moved out of her parents’ house, she often stopped by this neighborhood, whenever she craved Korean food. She would sit alone with a book or a newspaper and order a bowl of sulongtang. People would stare at her, because Korean girls rarely ate alone. Back then, there was no way one could get ahold of kimchi on 116th Street. Sure, Columbia was filled with students from around the world. Along Broadway, there were a number of Chinese takeouts, as well as a few sushi bars. And if you really wanted to splurge, it wasn’t hard to find all kinds of exotic food, from the candlelit Tibetan parlor on Riverside to the hole-in-the-wall Ethiopian takeout near the Law School building. Yet for Korean food you still had to travel down to 32nd Street. It was still the end of the eighties. The kimchi trend had not yet begun among students. It soon stopped mattering, though, because things changed almost overnight. First, when Damian happened in her life, she stopped craving anything except him. She would go wherever he suggested. She would skip food all day if that was what he wanted. Besides, they would not have dared entering 32nd Street together, for fear of bumping into anyone they knew. Then, later, with her parents’ death, everything lost its color. On certain rainy days, she would wander into this corner of the city, wanting so much, wanting anything on the menu. She would experience such an immense hunger that she wouldn’t know which dish to choose. It was as if she was looking to fill a certain longing, a certain desperation. Yet, by the time the food arrived, she no longer had any appetite. In fact, she could not bear the sudden rush of Korean flavors. It was impossible. It hit too close to home. It fell upon her like a sad awakening. Soon she just stopped coming.
But the soup tastes so good today, tangy, with lots of juice. It is a perfect soup for the cool weather, milky white and hot. The lumpy bits must be cartilage, rolling so smoothly on her tongue. She may still be the same girl after all, the one who would skip classes and hop on a subway all the way from 116th Street just for a bowl of soup and a plate of kimchi. She is so comforted by this thought that she almost forgets about the mean accountant, and the hushed tone of the caller who seemed afraid for her life. She is about to ask for another plate of kimchi when she notices the ad at the bottom of the Korea Daily’s front page. “The New Joy Fellowship Church,” it reads. “Join us for the Thanksgiving Sermon at our God’s House, the largest Korean church in New Jersey! Parking spaces available. Live Broadcasting on www.newjoyfellowship.org.”
All Korean churches advertise. The competition is fierce. Sometimes a newspaper is sponsored by a specific church, like an allegiance to a political party. The prime missionary spots are restaurants and airports. At entrances to Korean restaurants, there are often boxes of sermon tapes provided by different churches. At the JFK’s KAL lounge, it is not unusual to find Korean missionaries approaching those freshly arriving, like the zealous hostel-owners at tourist islands when the ship comes in. So the ad is nothing new, except that Suzy knows the church. Grace’s church, where her parents’ funeral was held. Suzy does not remember its being the largest Korean church in New Jersey. Surely it has grown in the last five years. Grace must have worked hard. All those Bible studies. All that hard-earned cash. A safety-deposit for heaven. Maybe someone there will know of Grace’s whereabouts. Maybe Grace will even show up, if she has not gone too far away.
It is then that Suzy becomes aware of the face at the window, a young woman peering in as if trying to get a better look at her. She is more like a girl, in fact, twenty at most. A down coat with fur trim and a matching scarf. It is odd that so many Korean girls seem to dress the same. A crushed-velvet ponytail holder, the sure sign of an office girl. Finally, she breaks into an awkward smile and mumbles something. Then she seems to realize the absurdity of speaking through the window and moves toward the entrance.
“Hey, sorry about that,” the young woman says, pointing upstairs with her eyes. “He’s been like that for days.”
Quickly swallowing her mouthful, Suzy stares back, realizing that the girl is Mr. Bae’s assistant. Suzy feels compelled to say something, but she is embarrassed at how long it took for her to recognize the young woman.
“Good choice. Sulongtang. No other restaurant on this block throws in as much cartilage, and they even marinate their kimchi with fresh oysters. For doganitang, though, try the place across the street. Ask for ginseng between the knee bones. Costs more, but you won’t get cold all winter.”
The Asian youth these days are so confident, so full of life. She must be only about ten years younger than Suzy, yet there seems to be a gulf of generations separating the two. Suzy wonders if this girl considers herself 1.5 as well. Suzy has noticed fresh radiance among the NYU kids around her block. The Asian-American hip-hop kids. The petite girls in platform sneakers parading their dreadlocked boyfriends. The goateed boys in bandannas scooting around Tompkins Square Park. Being Asian is no longer embarrassing. Being Asian no longer suggests a high-school chess team. Being Asian might even be hip, trendy, cool.
“What if your boss sees you talking to me?” asks Suzy, cautiously.
“He’s in a client meeting. Fuck him. He can’t fire me anyway.” The young woman plops down opposite her. She then waves at the waitress, raising her index finger to gesture one order of sulongtang for herself.
Something about her insolence reminds Suzy of Grace. Young Grace. Suzy feels a sudden rush of affection for the girl.
“Besides, I sort of followed you…” Then she blurts out, “By the way, what’s up with those glasses?”
Earlier, leaving the apartment in a hurry after the strange phone call, Suzy threw on a pair of black sunglasses and some dark-red lipstick. A clumsy attempt to hide her face. She rarely wears lipstick, especially red. It came out of the last package Michael had sent her. Every possible Chanel beauty product wrapped in the newest Prada. Sandy’s choice obviously, although for a second Suzy wondered if the gift might not have been intended for his wife instead. There was a matching nail polish, which she gave away to one of the stenographers on a job. It was silly to think that she would feel less conspicuous behind the shield of glasses and lipstick, but she did feel better as she tumbled onto the N train with the acute sense of someone following her. Apparently, she’s kept the glasses on the whole time. No wonder people seemed to be staring at her. A woman alone sitting by the window, slurping soup while wearing dark glasses indoors.